


Under the Red Silk

by DoreyG



Category: Vera (ITV)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Crossdressing, F/M, First Time, Genderplay, Make-up, Mutual Masturbation, Polyamorous Relationships, Shaving, age-difference, heels are evil devices of torture for most people, walking in heels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:12:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about Joe is that he’s so incredibly, absurdly, offensively <i>pretty</i>.</p>
<p>Dark hair. Hazel eyes. A bit of stubble. Smart suits that <i>certainly</i> cling to every lovely line. Colour coded shirts that make his eyes and hair look so sinful that it’s a miracle more people don’t run wildly into walls around him.</p>
<p>…He, somehow, looks even better in <i>heels</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Red Silk

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'genderplay' square on my Kink_Bingo. I... Sort of feel like I'm fulfilling rule 34 by posting this, but oh well. 

The thing about Joe is that he’s so incredibly, absurdly, offensively _pretty_.

Dark hair. Hazel eyes. A bit of stubble. Smart suits that _certainly_ cling to every lovely line. Colour coded shirts that make his eyes and hair look so sinful that it’s a miracle more people don’t run wildly into walls around him.

…He, somehow, looks even better in _heels_.

And a dress. A red dress. Clinging to his thighs. Highlighting long, pale, _shaved_ legs stretching down for seemingly forever beneath it. Making him look almost _feminine_ with his smoky eyelashes and wide eyes and an expression just a little like an oddly beautiful deer caught in the headlights.

“Don’t ask,” he requests miserably, sliding into her car with his head down and his cheeks red.

“…Wasn’t going to, pet.”

They drive back to her house in silence. He keeps his head down for most of the way, avoids her every single glance with that blush merrily matching his dress… But still, _somehow_ , manages to look so _pretty_ that her eyes just keep straying anyway. To his smooth thighs again the seat. The odd gloriousness of his face in make-up. The long, pale line of his neck as he leans it back against the headrest and _sighs_.

…Pretty.

“It was for a case,” he starts eventually, when they’ve pulled up in front of her house and quickly parked, “the Taylor case, if you remember. I was trying to get into the headspace of the victim.”

She keeps staring out into the dark, thanks _God_ that she’s too old to match Joe’s cheeks (and dress) with exertions of her own, “you don’t have to explain.”

“I _want_ to, though.”

They sit in silence for a few moments more. She slowly eases her hands from the wheel, puts them in her lap. Still finds herself glancing over to Joe every few moments. At the contrast of his white hands against his red dress. And the unexpectedly narrow drawing in of his waist. And the way those heels make his narrow ankles look.

“I could never wear heels myself, you know,” she says suddenly, before she quite knows that she’s going to do it, “I kept tripping in them, constantly turning my ankle over and almost headbutting doorsteps and all that. How are you in them?”

There’s a long pause.

His smile is very slow, very uncertain. Most definitely timid in the darkness of the car, “alright.”

“Really?”

He turns his head slowly, still timidly. Almost catches her still fixated on those stupidly narrow ankles – made creepily fascinating by those shiny straps, “erm, would you like to see?”

There’s a long (self enforced, she doesn’t know what she’ll _say_ ) pause.

“…We might as well get in, then.”

She gets out of the car, closes the door quickly behind her and barely remembers not to lock it as usual. Goes, without thinking, to the other side of the car to get it for Joe and usher him out into the night like some sort of proper lady…

_Oh_.

The man _can_ walk in heels, no two ways about it. No wobbling, no staggering, no arms held out for balance. He keeps his head held high, his back straight – that ever so faint smile on his face even as he waltzes down her non-too landscaped front path and right up to her door.

She finds herself staring again.

He’s up on the doorstep before he notices, and she realizes, that she’s not following. Glances back over his shoulder with a puzzled wrinkle of his forehead, a concerned expression and an almost… No, _no_ such look in his mascara-surrounded eyes. 

She mentally slaps herself before hurrying up the path after him. Takes her customary few goes to open the door, the bloody thing is old and not of a mind to stop sticking after all these years, but manages it in the end even with Joe’s not-at-all longing eyes. Spills into the hall without incident. Closes the dratted thing behind them before any can occur.

…Joe remains fixed on her even after she’s flicked the light on, it sends a slightly odd feeling fluttering in her stomach. Creeping up her arms and choking her throat, “do you have a change of clothes here? I doubt that Celine would approve of me tripping in like this.”

“Scaring the kids,” she agrees, a touch absently as he _smiles_ again, “I keep some upstairs. Special for you, pet.”

…That smile, that timid and _distracting_ one, simply grows wider. As if he’s bracing himself for something. As if he’s already _braced_ and is determined to keep marching down some mysterious road no matter what, “aren’t you going to ask if I can climb in heels?”

She only _huffs_ in reply, blesses her age yet again, “I think that’s something not worth betting on.”

The smile transforms into a grin. Joe turns without another word, sets his first foot on the old wood. She can’t even _pretend_ to be watching anything other than the red silk dragging over his arse as he slowly starts to climb.

…Slowly and _perfectly_ , mysterious bastard that he is.

It doesn’t take long for them to reach her bedroom. She stops him with a hand to his arm, thankfully not shaved like his legs, and gestures him in. It’s a bit of a tip but, then, he’s seen _far_ worse over the years of their acquaintance. At least there isn’t a _body_ on the bed as he smoothly swivels and sways his way in.

“I still don’t understand how you can move like that,” she finds herself grumbling, as he dumps _himself_ on the bed and she pulls a drawer out to start rummaging, “the last time _I_ wore heels-“

“You tripped over,” he says almost apologetically, still from her bed, “you’ve already said.”

“I didn’t _just_ trip over, thank you very much. I almost gave myself _concussion_ in front of my supervisor at the time,” she smiles to herself, despite all memories of worried stares and pounding heads, rises from the drawer and tosses Joe over an entirely unassuming (and masculine) shirt and _boring_ (still masculine) pair of trousers, “will they fit?”

He catches them easily, examines them for a long and fastidious moment before answering, “yeah, these should be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Better for going home in, at least.”

…There’s a pause.

She starts to turn away, to give him a little bit of privacy as he becomes manly Joe again. He starts to reach for the hem of his dress, quite slowly as if he doesn’t _mind_ being something more despite all the awkwardness and staring and entirely inappropriate thoughts.

“You look fine like that, though,” she confesses without thinking, before she can fully turn away and things can get back to normal again, “ _good_ like that… Though.”

…There’s another pause.

“You like it?” and there’s an edge of tension to that question, when it’s asked. An oddly searing note that has that feeling shifting in her stomach and up her arms and around her throat _again_.

“Yes,” she answers anyway, turning back as it congeals into a hard sort of lump in stomach and up arms and firmly around throat.

They stare at each other for a long moment.

His fingers make no further movement closer to the hem of his red dress, she makes no further effort to turn around and ignore everything again.

“Boss-“

“Pet-“

She shifts before he does. Ends up warily teetering on the edge of the bed – gently tracing her fingers over the dress. It feels soft under her fingers. Fine. Much better than the tawdry efforts she’s sometimes seen on drunken louts staggering between pubs on the last night before marriage.

“Do I even want to ask where you got this, lad?”

He only smiles, a touch shakier and a touch brighter. His hands are ever so warm as they reach up to cover hers.

“…Celine-?”

“She thinks that we’ve been together for months, if not _years_ , already,” his breath is ever so warm on her face, too – she can feel it brushing over her lips, “gave me a supportive talk about it just last week. You can ask Kenny, if you like.”

“I’m certainly not calling him _now_ , pet,” she smoothes her hands up the fabric as they breath together. Briefly bunches it, because it’d be a shame to ruin the thing, and catches another glimpse of wonderfully pure thigh “…She’s-?”

“She’s _fine_ with it.”

“Oh,” she considers for a long second, bunches the fabric again and allows her eyes to trail up those thighs – the smooth hairlessness of them, somehow shaved closer than she’s ever managed. The pale swell of them, practically _begging_ for the bite of nails. The sheer temptation of them, so beautiful and almost divine… “Good, then.”

“Good?”

“ _Very_ good.”

Just as he’s good at kissing, to tell the absolute truth. Deep, thorough, somehow _soft_ despite both of those very excellent things. He kisses as if he’d never want to be anywhere else, as if this is the _height_ of pleasure for him, as if he’s wanted to do so for an eternity or _more_.

…It’s _flattering_ , really.

Somewhere along the way he drags her down and she ends up spread over the top of him, ungainly and flailing a little in a way that’s probably about as attractive as a wildebeest that’s eaten a bit too much grass. He doesn’t seem to mind, bless him. Just keeps kissing her in that position, learning her lips so carefully she half thinks that he expects her to set a _test_. 

And, well, if _he_ doesn’t mind then she’s quite determined to not mind either. She kisses him in return, learning his lips just as carefully in case he decides to set a test too. Gently moves her hips down against his, feels something most certainly _not_ female under the red silk. Draws her weight back just a little so he can fumble with the hem of the dress, try to draw it up over his hips…

_Laughs_ , as it just flops stubbornly down again and leaves him with only a slightly peeved pout.

Joe seems a touch annoyed for a _long_ moment, the poor sod, but he is _Joe_ and always will be no matter what he slips into. He can’t hold back his own chuckle for long, his own shaking head, his own entirely rueful _grin_ , “ma’am?”

She snorts herself to a halt with some effort, grins down at him despite herself, “for Christ’s sake, pet, don’t call me that in _bed_.”

“You call me pet.”

“That’s entirely _different_ ,” she smiles again, just a _touch_ snootily, regards him in an ever so fond way as he summons that ridiculous mock-pout right back to his face, “have you got a condom?”

He seems surprised for a long moment. It’s somewhat endearing, really. Especially with the dark eyeshadow around his eyes making him look just a tiny bit like Bambi, “I’m not in the habit of carrying one around when I’m wearing a dress, I’m afraid. You?”

“Not in the habit of carrying them around in a dress either,” she says mischievously, just to test how far he can stretch that gorgeous little pout “…Afraid not. I wasn’t expecting my dearest sergeant to show up and suddenly sweep me off my swooning feet.”

“…We will need them, won’t we?” 

“For protection, yes,” she makes a face, watches the pout involuntarily drop and be replaced by an adoring smile, “I’m past the risk of pregnancy, thank _God_ , but anybody can get diseases. And it’d be _very_ awkward to explain my brand new polyamorous relationship with my colleague to my doctor in that sort of situation.”

“Right,” making him lapse into almost-giggles is as fun as always, she has to admit. She doesn’t think that that’s ever going to change, no matter if he’s sprawled out underneath her with his make-up faintly smudged and his thighs so smooth, “there’s stuff we can do without condoms, though… I mean, erm, if you still want to-?”

“Always, love,” she can only smile down at him again, lean in for yet another kiss, “you?”

The mechanics of mutual masturbation haven’t changed much since the last time she did it, thankfully. It still involves one cock, this one younger and more responsive and still in a dress, and one vagina, a bit older than last time and a little out of practice but _still_ fully functional thank you very much. Still involves sliding off his hips and sprawling besides him, quite easily. Still involves staring into each others’ eyes and smiling a little at the sheer _ridiculousness_ of it all.

She slides the silk of his dress above his hips with a great deal more success, he makes a face at her even as she takes him in hand. He unbuttons her trousers and slides them down over her hips with her underwear, she starts a little at his first touch but keeps smiling nonetheless.

…One cock, one vagina.

She can do this.

It really is sort of like riding a bike, although that’s an incredibly inappropriate image and she shouldn’t be thinking it when there are no condoms for miles around. She’s pleased to find that she still remembers when to twist her wrist, how to tighten her grip, what to do when his eyes flutter shut and his chest _shakes_ with a groan.

She twists her wrist multiple times, just to make his free hand dig into her hip. Watches his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks: long, dark and smoky.

And, in response, he moves his hand too. Slides it carefully between her legs, starts moving his fingers in a deliberate and practiced way. Smiles as she bites back a gasp, unused to having somebody touch her _there_ after all this time.

She lets her grip tighten in a petty sort of revenge, or something that can _almost_ be called revenge but will probably turn out far better for all parties involved, and finds herself slightly high on remembering how. Eventually settles into a rhythm of tightening just when he least expects it – making his hips jerk frantically against the red cloth.

And, in between the jerks, he starts to circle his fingers. Make her breath catch in her lungs in an entirely unexpected way. Presses deep and quick, not penetrating but managing something _better_ than that – something that makes her shudder against him and lick her lips and whine through her teeth in a way that makes the smile a _grin_ yet again.

She watches when his eyes _clench_ shut, when he lets a moan properly spill from his lipsticked lips and stills his fingers for a long and helpless moment-

And she _groans_ as he forces himself to start up again, traces his fingers just that little bit higher and presses carefully over her clit-

_Damn_ …

And, well, in the end she simply calms her own groans and leans in to kiss him. Smiles against his panting mouth as he freezes yet again and comes shuddering all over her hand.

…It takes a few, entirely gratifying, minutes for him to get his breath back after that.

But Joe soon, luckily, manages it. And resumes his attentions with all due speed. Finding that little nub that used to make her _scream_ twenty years ago (and still makes her gasp now), sliding his free hand to trace over her nipples in a way that _does_ make her bite her lip, eventually moving closer and gently grazing her earlobe and whispering, “ _Vera_ ,” ever so lowly…

And.

Her orgasm is unexpected, but lovely nonetheless. The world doesn’t go white, or sparkly and she’s _pretty_ sure that she doesn’t scream, but it becomes blissful enough for a few seconds and that’s alright for her. He kisses her through it slowly, gently lifts a hand to stroke through her still slightly tangled hair.

Ah.

_Ah_.

“…You should wear a dress more often, pet,” she manages eventually, when he finally draws back and smiles like he’s just experienced one of the happiest moments of his life (even with lipstick staining his teeth, even with the dress slightly rumpled around his waist), “it can _only_ lead to good things.”

“I’ll wear one made out of condoms next time,” he nods solemnly, groping sleepily down for the messy blankets heaped roughly at the foot of the bed, “just for you.”

And she _laughs_ , as he draws them up and snuggles happily back in.


End file.
